


Bleeding Love

by Evenlodes_Friend



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-28
Updated: 2012-07-02
Packaged: 2017-11-08 18:49:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/446350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evenlodes_Friend/pseuds/Evenlodes_Friend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock returns from the dead with trepidation. Inspired by the song 'Bleeding Love' by Leona Lewis, and Marie's marvellous painting of the scene of return, '3 Years'. Experimental POV, please review.  First published on FF.net.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sherlock's Return

**Author's Note:**

> I'm in the process of transferring my work from FF.net to other platforms as a result of their explicit content regs, and thought AO3 might have the right audience for this one. If the formatting is a bit wonky, I apologise but I am just getting to grips with the interface.

When I woke up this morning, I had it all worked out. What I would say to you. My speech prepared. But now, standing here in Baker Street, waiting, my mind has gone blank. Imagine that, John. My mind a blank. It must be a first.

Molly told me you have started coming home from the surgery late. She knows because she has text exchanges with you when you are on the bus. So I have timed my arrival carefully. I don’t want anyone else to see me before you do. Not the gang at Speedy's, or Mrs Hudson, though I do so want to see her face again. But not before you, John.

You are late.

I’ve been standing around in the cold for nearly an hour. A fine November mist has gathered off the river, hazing the street lights. And I’ve only got this stupid khaki jacket. Its too short. I miss my overcoat. I can’t wear it. Someone might recognise me. I wonder if you’ll recognise me, with my hair shorn, and in these ghastly clothes? Me, with my stomach flipping and my teeth chattering. Not the cold, though I try to pretend it is.

I wonder how hard you are going to hit me. I wonder how loud you’ll shout. I wonder if you’ll even speak before you slam the door in my face.

All I know is that I have to see you. Even if it is one last time.

There are people about, even this late. People passing. Empty, dull faces. None of them is you. I wonder if you have longed to see my face as much as I have longed to see yours. Molly says you have been wretched. The thought of your suffering has tortured me. At least I knew you were safe. Safe while I kept away from you. But now that I have made sure you will always be safe from Moriarty, I can return to Baker Street.

You emerge around the corner suddenly, taking me by surprise. You are hobbling – your leg has been bad since I fell, Molly says. You are struggling with Tesco carrier bags, one in each hand. I can see from the way you move that your shoulder is bad too. Oh, John, what have I done to you?

You don’t look up until you are almost upon me, almost outside the front door of the flat. And then you freeze.

The bags slither from your fingers. Corn flakes and a jar of cook-in sauce roll onto the paving flags.

My heart twists in my chest. The pain is acute.

Your mouth opens, just a little. Your eyes flood.

I realise my eyes, too, are blurred.

You look so exhausted. So grey and old.

What have I done?

Then we are both moving, and you reach out to me, and I reach out to you and we hit each other, chest to chest, arms wrapping around each other, clinging on like drowning men. I press my face into your neck. You smell so good. How could I have forgotten the scent of you? You bury your face in my chest. You are shaking. I am shaking. The world disappears and there is only us. Holding one another. Holding on tight.

Then you pull away a little, snake a hand up to cup the back of my skull, press a kiss to my cheek, look up into my eyes.

I want to kiss you.

I have never wanted anything more.

I know I can’t.

But then you do. You kiss my lips, a searing kiss. You make stars behind my eyelids and diamonds in my mouth.

Oh John.

Then we are staring at one another. Taking each other in. Still disbelieving.

I don’t think you even realise you have kissed me. But you stroke your fingertips along my cheek, over and over again, and all I want to do is to press back against that touch. Instead I raise my own hand to brush the tears from your face.

I have no idea how long we stand there, just looking at one another, holding one another. It could be seconds or hours. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that you are here and I am here.

Then you say, ‘We should go inside,’ and your voice is hoarse, but to me it sounds like Heaven.

And I say, ‘Your bags,’ and we gather them up, and I hold them while you fumble with your keys. And then we are inside and the familiar, comforting smell of Baker Street envelops me, the smell of you, and of Mrs Hudson’s cooking, and it’s all I can do not to stop at the bottom step and collapse into sobs because I have missed home so much, and I didn’t even know that I had a home to miss until this moment.

We go into the living room. Put the bags down on the floor. Nothing has changed. The skull is still on the mantle, despite all your threats. The knife still skewers the unanswered mail.

Pain flickers over your features.

‘Just tell me why,’ you say. It is awful to see you like this, in such agony.

So I say, ‘To keep you safe.’ And then I tell you about the sniper, the assassins Jim left as his insurance policy. He said he’d burn the heart out of me, and he meant it, John. He got me coming and going. He made me choose between my pride and the people I love. I don’t regret the choice I made. I’d make the same one again, right now, even seeing what it has done to you, because at least you are alive to feel the pain. A world without you in it would be empty indeed. Then I really would have to jump off a roof.

I don’t need to tell you what I have done in the last three months. I don’t need to fill in the gaps. You know I wouldn’t have broken cover if I thought for one minute it would threaten your safety. You don’t ask me what I did to them. You know what I am capable of when those I love are threatened. You saw that CIA agent, after all. And I know you would have done the same. Without hesitation. After all, I saw the cabbie.

You stare at me, and I can see you are wrestling with yourself.

‘You can hit me if you want,’ I say. ‘I’ll understand.’

You give me a weak smile. ‘Not today. Tomorrow, maybe.’

Then you turn and go into the kitchen. I hear you filling the kettle and I follow. You are standing with your back to me, facing the counter top, putting teabags in two mugs. I can’t help myself. Nearly four months away from you has left me needy. Not touching you leaves a gaping hole in me, and I can’t bear the loss of your warmth. I stand behind you, put my arms around your waist, press my body against your back, rest my cheek on your shoulder. Only then am I anywhere near happy.

You say nothing. Just lean back against me, very slightly. And sigh.

The kettle boils. You fill the mugs. You add sugar. Hook out the teabags with a teaspoon. Your hand shakes.

I reach for the milk inside the fridge, but there is none.

‘No milk?’ I ask.

And then you tell me.

How you came home from Barts that last day and found the milk I had bought from the corner shop. I had forgotten I did it. I left a little note:

Forgot it was my turn.  
This should keep you going for a while.  
S.

It was one of the last things I did that night, before I left the flat.

You tell me how you crumpled to the floor in front of that open fridge and sobbed for two hours. You tell me how you haven’t been able to look at a milk carton since.

If I wasn’t broken before, I am now.

I turn you to face me, and hold you tight. I tell you how sorry I am. I tell you over and over again. I cry. 

You stroke my hair.

You say,’ are you staying?’

I am confused.

You say, ‘I need to know. Are you staying? Are you going to leave me again?’

I say, ‘I never want to leave you again.’ And then, after I have thought a little, ‘But it’s your choice. This is your home. I abdicated any say when I left you.’

You say, ‘but this is your home too.’

And I say, ‘No. Not unless you say you want me to come back. Not unless you feel you can face me after what I’ve done to you.’

You hug me almost savagely.

‘Don’t leave me,’ you croak. ‘Don’t ever leave me again. Come home, Sherlock. I don’t work without you.’

I don’t think there were ever sixteen more beautiful words said by any human being in the history of the world.

You say, ‘your tea is getting cold.’

I say, ‘I hate tea without milk.’

You look up at me and I swear, John, you are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen in my life.

You say, ‘we had fun, didn’t we?’

And I tell you, ‘We’ll have fun again, I promise.’

You say, ‘Do you remember that time at Buck House?’

I say, ‘Me on the Queen’s sofa, bare arse naked.’ 

And we laugh. I laugh. I can’t remember the last time I laughed. And the words just bubble up out of me, as if the cork has been cracked off the top of a bottle of Bollinger, and the moment they come out of my mouth, those treacherous three words, those words I swore I would never say to anyone, that I promised myself I would never breathe to you in case you ran, the moment I say them, I regret it because I know you don’t want to hear them, but when you do finally hear them from my lips, you touch my cheek and say,

‘Me too.’

And I stare at you. I can’t believe it. And even you, dense though you are, can see I don’t believe you, so you say it again, just to be sure, just so I know.

‘I love you too, Sherlock.’

There we are standing in the middle of our untidy kitchen, holding one another, and my heart bursts.

I rest my forehead against yours and close my eyes. I am spinning.

And I whisper, ‘Is it possible to explode with joy?’

And you laugh and say, ‘if it is, this is going to be a very messy kitchen!’

And then you kiss me again. It is overwhelming. Your mouth, your lips, so perfect. You taste so sweet. Your tongue finds mine. I gulp you in, desperate that this moment shouldn’t end. I don’t want to fight with you like we used to, all that bickering. I want this, this beauty, this voluptuous submission to the senses. The smell of you. The feel of you. The taste of you. The sound of you. The sight of you. Everything of you. I want you to make me yours. Entirely.

‘Oh God,’ I moan into your mouth, and you grip me tighter, push me against the worktop. You are so strong. I never knew. How could I not know?

But I have to pull away.

I say, ‘But you’re straight.’

You say, ‘it appears not. At least, not when it comes to you.’ You brush the hair back from my forehead with your strong hand. ‘This is a terrible haircut,’ you say.

‘I know.’

And then, ‘But you are straight.’

And you look at me, that sardonic look you use when you think I’m being a prick, and you say, ‘Look, when you’ve been wounded in action and nearly died on the operating table – twice, I may add – and then lost everything you loved because of a psychopathic criminal, things really seem a lot less black and white than the rest of the world might have you believe. And an awful lot simpler.’

‘But you always told everyone who’d listen that we weren’t together,’ I protest.

And you grin, that wonderful, wonderful grin of yours, and you say, ‘You can be so clever and so stupid at the same time. Did it ever occur to you that it wasn’t them I was trying to convince?’

Which stumps me entirely.

Then you go on, ‘Besides, you never said you were gay.’

This gives me some pause for thought.

You say, ‘In fact, at Angelo’s you were quite keen to impress upon me that you were married to your job.’

And I say, ‘yes.’

So you say,’ would you like to tell me a little about that?’

Which irritates me in the extreme, and I say, ‘don’t do the psychiatrist routine on me, John.’

Which makes you laugh. But you are still giving me that intense look, that questioning look, and I know I have to answer.

‘I tried out alternative modes of sexual expression when I was at university. They did not satisfy me. I concluded, based on the evidence I had collated, that I was asexual. After that, it never occurred to me that I was anything else. Until we met.’

And that’s the point, John. Until we met. My life divides now into the part ‘before you’, and the part ‘with you’. And I don’t ever want there to be a part ‘after you’.

You look deep into my eyes, and you seem suddenly serious. Your irises have lost that bleached look they had, sucked to husks by grief. They are that old, familiar indigo again. And the way you look at me, I feel like you can see right into my soul.

You whisper, ‘What is this love?’ There is a strange awe in your voice.

My tears are ganging up on me once more. Your hands are on my cheeks, rumpling up my face, pulling me close.

I answer you, ‘I don’t know. All I know is that it is not a choice, it is as much an irreversible fact as gravity. You are my gravity, John.’

You breathe, ‘I missed you so much. I don’t think you will ever understand how much.’

I say, ‘I’m so sorry I hurt you.’

You close your eyes and take a deep breath. And sigh it out slowly.

You say, ‘You really hurt me, Sherlock, and I will be angry with you. I will have to find a way to trust you again. But right now, I’m just so glad you’re alive that I don’t care about any of that.’

You sink down into a chair, exhausted.

I say, ‘tell me what I can do.’

You say, ‘I don’t think you can do anything.’

A proud man will abase himself for love. A vain man will gladly look a fool, an arrogant man will submit to any humiliation for the one he adores. I am all of these things. And I still get down on my knees and crawl across the kitchen floor until I am right at your feet. Then I bend my head, and with as much reverence and tenderness as I can muster, I take your trembling hand in my own and press it to my lips.

And then I say what is in my heart.

‘You’re the bravest, best man I know and I’m not good enough to even kiss your feet.’


	2. Two Hearts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John struggles to find a way to overcome his trust issues with Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies that it has taken me so long to post this second chapter. My excuse is that I have come down with a serious case of RSI, probably from writing 2-3000 words of Sherlock smut every day for the last 13 months. It may not make you blind but it totally knackers your digits! Normal service will be resumed as soon as the physiotherapist waives his magic wand. In the meatime, I hope you like this.

I wake alone. The bed beside me is cold and empty. Only a couple of hours earlier I was watching you sleep. You wept. In your sleep, John. I’ve never seen anyone cry in their sleep before. It was the saddest thing I have ever witnessed. 

And now I am lying in your bed, alone, waking the way I swore yesterday morning I never would again, and the panic slices through me, that I have dreamt it all, that everything you said last night, when you asked me to stay, it is all gone, withdrawn, and you have abandoned me.

So I stumble down stairs, realising too late that though I am still dressed in shirt and trousers, my feet are bare, and blue with cold. Like my heart, I think, as I waver on the threshold of the living room, afraid to push the door open.

You are there, of course. You always are. But you are not the man I left three months and a half ago. I can see that now. The way you slump down in your armchair, your shoulders bowed. You have aged. You are tired, exhausted even. Your skin looks pallid, dusty. You do not look at me. You cannot.

Something inside me screams out in pain, and I hear a crack from within, like a plate breaking on a hot hob. 

I have broken you, my love, and I cannot remake you.

I walk in, hearing the skin of my feet pat on the floorboards, and sit slowly down on the sofa. I am almost afraid to breathe, in case I disturb your reverie. I was expecting shouting last night, punches even. You are not above knocking me out – you’ve done it before. Now that I deserve it more than ever, you don’t seem to have the strength.

Finally you speak, and your voice sounds hoarse.

‘How can I ever trust you again?’

Your words sound like tombstones rubbed together. This, from the one man who has always believed in me, even when everyone else in the world was condemning me. You, who crusaded so fearlessly on my behalf. While I was dead. Have you forsaken me now I am alive again? If you have, I am far more dead than I ever could have been otherwise. You have killed me more surely than James Moriarty ever could.

I do the only thing I can think of to do (me, the genius, the man with a brain the size of a planet, or so you always tell me, and I cannot think of a better strategy than this – but then perhaps this is not the time for strategies). 

I beg.

‘Tell me what to do, John? Tell me how to make it right? I’ll do anything. Anything.’

You sigh and shake your head. You look unutterably sad. I have never known you like this. I would give anything for you to shout at me now, scream your head off, throw something, but I have beaten even that out of you with grief.

So I beg again.

‘For God’s sake, look at me? Please?’

Eventually you do. You turn your head like an animate statue and look at me with your weary eyes. Those eyes that were always such a vivid blue. Grief drained the sparkle from them. Oh, what have I done to you?

I moan.

I slither down onto the floor and I crawl, yes crawl, my love, for you only I will crawl and kneel and beg. Not for forgiveness. I can’t expect that. Nothing so grand. No, I beg for hope. Last night I crawled to your side and kissed your hand, and now I do it again. Last night I was humble. I abased myself for you. This morning, I am pleading for my life, your life, our life.

‘Please?’

‘I don’t know how,’ you groan. ‘How can I know that? How can I know how to prize you open so that I can see what’s inside your soul? You hide so much, Sherlock. How can a man like me hope to see it all?’

‘I’ll give it to you,’ I say, and I can hear the desperation in my own voice. ‘I’ll give you everything. I’ll show you everything. Only, please don’t send me away?’

You touch my cheek then, and give me a kindness I know I don’t deserve.

‘I’ll never send you away, love,’ you croak. You sound so worn out; distant. You loll your head back, and for a moment as you close your eyes I think you mean to sleep again. But your eyelashes quiver against your cheekbones, and I know you are thinking. So I wait. I wait, knowing that my future, our future, hangs by a thread. That whatever comes out of that sandy head of yours will decide whether this ‘us’ we have made can find a way to survive. I sit at your feet, my hand twined around yours, and wait for my fate to be decided.

And eventually it happens. You come up with something. I try to convince myself that I knew you would, but I know it’s a lie. I really didn’t know. I had only the finest thread of hope. But hope nevertheless.

‘I need you to do as I tell you,’ you say, opening your eyes and staring at the ceiling.

‘Anything.’

‘And suspend all judgement.’

‘What does that mean?’ It’s not a challenge, it’s just that I am genuinely confused. What is it that you want me to do? Conjure a rabbit out of the ether? Perform a Tarot reading? What?

‘Take off your shirt.’

I do, though my fingers are numb with the cold. (Or is it fear?)

You haul yourself out the chair, and I can tell from the way you move that you shoulder is bad this morning. I am putting you under intolerable stress. You are still favouring your leg too. Limping a little. My chest reverberates with distress at what I have put you through. When you start to pull your t-shirt off, you get stuck half way, unable to lift your left arm high enough because of the pain, so I help you, and my fingertips brush inadvertently on your skin.

Oh, John.

But you act as if you haven’t noticed, or at least, as if it doesn’t matter. There is no contact between us, it seems, until you decide there is.

You push the coffee table aside to make a big space in the middle of the floor and then sit down on the rug, with your legs stretched out in front of you. You pat the floor in front of your pelvis with your palm.

‘Sit down here,’ you say. ‘Facing me.’ And then you watch me get confused about where to put my long legs. You let me panic until you can’t stand it anymore, and then you let out an exasperated ‘humpf!’ and lift my thighs over yours, one on either side. Now we are sitting face to face, and then you amaze me, shock me a little perhaps, by grabbing my bottom with both hands, and dragging me towards you so that we are barely three inches apart. I wish I could tell you that this proximity, this position, is perfectly fine with me, but I can’t. I feel exposed, and I don’t like it. I don’t know what you mean to do, and I feel apprehensive. 

And I am terrified that you will notice how being this near to you affects me. That you will see that I am semi-hard. I can’t help it. I try to concentrate, to think of something else, but being so close to your beautiful body, my love, it jangles my every nerve. 

Because you are beautiful. Part of the reason you are so beautiful is that you have no idea how beautiful you are. How magnetic. How magnificent. I look into your face now, at your sweet ski-jump nose and your wide, curled mouth and I see love made in human form.

And I look down at your chest. Oh, God, your chest. How I have longed for your ribcage all these long months. You will laugh at me when you know. You will think me even stranger than you already know me to be. It is the sheer depth of it, John. The interior measurement of you from sternum to spine must be double what mine is, and I am much the bigger man. Your barrel chest is what I have yearned for, ached to throw my arms around, and now it is here, scant inches away and I cannot touch it. It is perfect agony. Utter torture, and I know I deserve it.

‘Put your hand over my heart,’ you say, sounding harder, resolute.

I do, trying to conceal the shake in my fingers. Your skin is smooth, cool. The little copse of light brown hair across your chest rasps against my palm. I can feel the throb of your heartbeat. I can’t believe I am touching you.

‘I want you to understand that this is a widely recognised psychological technique used in couples counselling for promoting trust and communication,’ you say, putting on that doctor voice of yours, slightly patronising. I say nothing, even though I prickle. 

‘Its success will depend on your willingness to be open with me.’

‘Yes,’ I tell you.

‘I am going to put my hand on your heart. You will keep your hand on mine. And then you will look me in the eye, and hold that look. You will not stare. This is not a competition to see who can stare the other one out first. This is communication. Openness. Do you understand?’

‘Yes.’ Though really I can’t see what this is supposed to achieve. It’s one of those ridiculous psychobabble things they used to come up with at the clinic where Mycroft sent me for my cocaine addiction. Ridiculous failures, the lot of them. You were right to warn me not to judge, of course. You know me too well.

‘This will not be as easy as it seems,’ you add. ‘Not if you do it right. Not if you are being truly open with me.’

I stifle the desire to scoff. Instead I nod.

‘Are you ready?’

‘Yes.’

You lift your hand and rest it on my chest. I pretend not to notice how much it shakes before it comes to rest. I know you will be embarrassed that I have noticed. But you know that I will notice, nonetheless.

I try not to marvel at the fact that you are touching my naked skin. That I am touching yours.

‘Now look me in the eye, Sherlock.’

And I do.

Except that I don’t. No, not that, it’s that I can’t. As soon as I try, I have to look away. I cringe. I squirm. Come on, Sherlock, how hard can this be? All you have to do is look the man in the eye, and he will trust you and love you again.

Except that it isn’t that easy. Nothing with you ever is.

I want to, believe me. And I try, really hard. It’s just that our eyes seem to be like magnets with opposing polarities. My eyeballs just seem to slip off you. I keep trying, but it won’t work, and I can sense you getting frustrated.

‘Close your eyes,’ you say after my fifth go. And I do. It’s much easier, believe me. ‘Now feel inside your chest. Under your ribs. Concentrate on your heart. Feel it beating?’

I want to snap back that of course I do, because I am just as frustrated with this silly exercise as you are, but I can’t because I can’t lose you. So I do what you tell me. I concentrate all my efforts on this one thing, my heart.

And it’s the strangest thing that when I do, I can not only feel it inside me, thudding, but see it as well, in my mind’s eye.

‘Now imagine it as a flower. A water lily or a rose, something with lots of petals. Imagine those petals are a tight bud that is opening. The petals are unfurling. Let them open. Let them stretch out as far as you can. Feel the soft air between them. Let your flower open as completely as you can.’

Your voice has become soft, gentle. I love its timbre. I could listen to you speak forever. You could read me the phone book every night and I wouldn’t get bored. Not now. Not when I have missed the sound of you so much, and for so long.

I do as you say. I concentrate. I imagine. The tight pink bud of a water lily floating on the rippling silver skin of a pool. I watch as the petals unfurl, sharp, spikey petals that are deep-tinted at the core and pale at the tips. It occurs to me that it is entirely natural that my heart flower should be something spikey. Yours is probably a rose or a peony, something soft and feathery. Rounded, like your heart. And when my water lily is completely open I watch it float in all its glory. And that is when I begin to feel it.

Our hearts are beating synchronously.

I can hear the smile in your voice when you know I have felt this. ‘It’s a little like harem syndrome, you know what that is?’

Eyes still closed, I shake my head, feeling the thud under both our ribs in wonder.

‘Women who are close friends, or who live or work together, often find that their menstruation coincides. It’s call harem syndrome. It’s symptomatic of the mind-body connection. And when two people are in love, when they share a deep connection, sometimes their hearts beat in time.’

I let out a sigh of awe. I never knew this. 

‘Now open your eyes, Sherlock, and look at me. Look into me. Look into my eyes and see my heart.’

I open my eyes and there you are. So beautiful. Coaxing me forward. Urging me gently on. I look into your eyes.

I see you.

And you see me.

You are looking right into me. I am entirely naked. You see everything. Even the unnameable things, the things I keep from myself. You see it all. And you see it with kindness. With infinite love. With a generosity of spirit that I have never known another man to possess. It’s not pity I see in your eyes. It is acceptance. You love me. Utterly and completely. For what I am.

And I see you.

I see your pain and your fear. I see how brave you have been. I see your charisma and your strength, your wisdom and your intelligence. I see how you have suffered. I see how much you need me, and how much you need me to need you. I see your heart swell with love. And trust.

And that is when it comes.

The thing that I have kept locked away so long. With my heart open, I cannot resist the march of emotions any longer. I can feel the pressure building in my chest, the surge of energies I don’t understand, forcing their way up. Suddenly I find I am being throttled, I am gagging with emotion. The pain in my throat is indescribable. I start to shake. Then judder. And then it bursts free, this torrent, this volcano. I am overwhelmed. I am drowning. I am under a dozen miles of heavy water and the pressure is bearing down on me, crushing me. I am crying out your name, begging you to save me.

And you do.

You reach out and pull my battered frame against you, and I cling on, helpless in the storm. And though my hand is no longer on your heart, I can feel it beating inside me. And when I have finally calmed just a little, I hear your voice above the maelstrom, kind and sweet as the sweetest of cool breezes on a sultry summer’s afternoon.

‘You are safe, love. I have you. You can let go of it now. All of it.’

I don’t know how you do it. Even in my paroxysms, I know it should be me holding you, it should be your tears that fall. And yet here you are, as redoubtable as Crac de Chevalier in the face of my torment. Holding me in your arms and comforting me, when I should be comforting you.

But I understand it now. What you meant to do. You have taken me apart and remade me. Fashioned me as I should have been, from the pieces of the man I was. Clever, clever John. Let me never doubt your intelligence again, my love.

‘My heart in your breast,’ you say. ‘And your heart in mine.’

And when the storm dies, its winds blown out, I find myself limp against your beautiful chest, like a rag doll, helpless. My head flops back, and you cradle me like a baby. You gaze down at me, and there is so much love in your eyes that it almost makes me weep again. I do not deserve this. I do not deserve your goodness.

‘That’s enough,’ you breathe, and place the tenderest of kisses on my forehead.


	3. John's decision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From John's point of view, and in second person. As John holds Sherlock in his arms after the heart exercise, he realises what he really wants...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, copied and pasted with two fingers of my left (non-dominant) hand so sorry for any wobbles. Enormous thanks to Chasingriver1, Witch Ravenfox, and Witch_Nova221B, and especially to Mirith Griffin, for all the wonderful support.

You didn’t realise that you had been waiting for him until he turned up on the doorstep. You always thought you had accepted it, accepted everything. What he was. What he did. You knew it was different to the other times you had lost people, friends, loved ones. You just never accepted it was this different.

You were angry, yes. Hurt, yes. Lost, yes. Broken, yes.

What you didn’t realise until you looked into his eyes was that you’d had the easy end of the bargain.

The heart exercise was pretty mean, you had to admit. There is no denying that there was part of you that gloated at his suffering, that wanted to jump up and punch the air and shout ‘Hah! You bastard! Take some of your own medicine!’ You were glad when he cried. 

Because you had cried. He’ll never know how much you cried. How much you hurt.

There’s a bit of you that is ashamed at being so glad he was miserable. There is a bit of you that knows its uncharitable, that desire to get back at him, to make him feel just a little bit of what you’ve been through. It’s not right.

But it is natural.

And because you are John Watson, because you have seen the shadows, walked the line, you don’t turn away from that part of you. You don’t try and cover it up and be a martyr. He hurt you. You are not going to deny that. He needs to know that. He needs to take his punishment.

But then all that fades to nothing when you hold his weeping form in your arms and know that however much you need him, he needs you more.

Need. 

That’s what your whole life has been about. Striving to be needed. Nobody needed you in that little three-bedroom semi in Woking where you grew up, struggling in the shadows of Harry’s tantrums. Nobody needed you at school, where you were always the sidekick, the quite bright but a bit mousey boy, the lad with the puppy fat on the outskirts of the trendy group, the nice boy that girls didn’t mind taking home to meet their parents but were never serious about because all girls like a bastard. 

Nice. That vanilla, mediocre word that has dogged you all your life.

Being in the army gave you the chance to be a bit not-nice.

(Look where that got you.)

Need is why you ended up in medicine, you understand now (it’s amazing the self-knowledge that hitting forty has given you.). People will always need a doctor. The trouble is that while everybody needs a doctor occasionally, nobody needed one permanently. You wonder sometimes if specialising in trauma medicine, first at Barts and then in the army, was a kind of subconscious self-harm – people pass through the life of a trauma doctor, rather than staying. They only ever enter his life because things are as bad as they can get. They don’t stay around because they’d rather get better. Physically and, it turns out, emotionally too. You were made to be left.

But then that was your subconscious pattern too, choosing women who didn’t need you. Needy women were too cloying. You chose the sure-fire rejection every time. The unattainable. Like your parents’ love (too busy concentrating on Harry to have time for you.)

Sherlock was always unattainable.

But then, you didn’t realise you loved him.

At least, not until he jumped off that building. Since then, he’s been just about as unattainable as anyone can be. That’s being dead for you.

Turned out he was being dead for you.

Turned out he was being wrecked for you.

Now you look at him, semi-conscious in the crook of your elbow, whimpering, tear-stained, broken, and you know beyond doubt that nobody, anywhere, will ever, ever need you as much as this man does.

He’s a mess. He clearly hasn’t been eating. Bones stick into you right, left and centre, even as you hold him. His skin is sallow, flaky, sure signs of underlying neglect and ill health. Dark shadows around his sunken eyes. And these clothes, God! Wearing a disguise is one thing, but this is quite another.

He’s been pining for you.

Oh yes, Sherlock Holmes has broken your negative pattern just as surely as you have broken his.

You hold his trembling form and you know the truth. Everything has changed. At first you were relieved he was alive. Then curious as to why. Then wearied by the emotional fatigue of feeling so much. Then you were angry and mistrustful, which was only natural. Then vengeful. And you got your revenge in spades, oh yes, just look at him, the poor sod, lying there in pieces! And now what? You don’t know. You only know you can’t let him go. Not now, not ever.

Part of you is still in awe at your power over him. You made him grovel. The Great Sherlock Holmes, the world’s biggest ego, actually got down on his hands and knees, and crawled and grovelled and begged for your love.

That has to count for something, right?

That’s when you realise.

You love him.

More than life itself.

And he loves you – literally - more than his own life because, like some latter-day martyr, he has sacrificed that life to save yours. (How many other people can say that of their – what? Partner? Flatmate? Friend?)

That’s where people go wrong. They see what they think is there. They see a little mousey-haired doctor running around at the Great Detective’s heels, being ordered about and patted on the head. You see the internal workings. You know perfectly well that he was just a rude, objectionable ex-junkie wack job with borderline autism and a God complex before you arrived in his life. If he is the Great Detective, then you made him that. Without you, he’s nothing, and he knows it. If anyone has the power in this relationship, it’s you. He’s the one who is doing the begging, after all.

You hold him, and a wave of tenderness comes over you that is so strong, you start to shake. You clutch him to you, press your face into his dark curls, and feel his brokenness. You will heal him. Whatever it takes. You will give him everything you have, because he has given everything, and he has so little to give. You have more than enough for both of you.

Co-dependent, isn’t that what your counsellor would call it?

Frankly, you don’t give a fuck, really, and you kiss his sorrow-rumpled brow and feel your body begin to wake for the first time in months. Maybe years. You have been dormant, you realise, cocooned in your own carapace of – what? Refusal to commit? Inability to love? Or loving the wrong people? Whatever it is, you have been hardened to the world. 

Sherlock got under your skin. You don’t know how, though you suspect it was his complete helplessness in the face of social interaction. He needs you to explain the world to him. To explain people to him. To explain feelings to him. You are his translator. In a world full of oranges, poor Sherlock is not even an apple, he is a small mongrel dog bemused by all these incomprehensible citrus fruits, and you are the only one who can explain them to him.

Sherlock Whisperer, Greg Lestrade called you once, and you are. The world’s one and only. How ironic, you think to yourself.

Holding him gently, you find yourself nuzzling his cheek, even more razor sharp than it was eight months ago on the roof of Barts. He may have been neglecting himself, but he smells so good. His cheek is soft, the skin delicate. You realise you have longed to touch it every day since you met, just to reach out and stroke that pale flesh with your fingertips. You pull back, amazed at yourself, at the way his physical scent has overtaken your senses, intoxicated you in a brief second or two. You find he is looking up at you, eyes pewter, and wide with wonder. Those perfect lips split, part. You are filled with the overwhelming desire to kiss them.

What has he done to you?

This is what Harry has been referring to for months as ‘The Willy Issue’. She was convinced as soon as you moved into Baker Street that you were in love with Sherlock – you hate it that she was right. But being Harry, she couldn’t take the idea of love being platonic. Harry is all for outright, naked, no-holds-barred fucking, regardless of gender. She has been telling you for so long that what you really needed was a boyfriend.

It’s not that sex with women didn’t satisfy you. Why else would you spend so much energy defending yourself against the assumption of homosexuality? You like girls. You always have. You like lips and breasts and bellies and hips and cunts and painted fingernails and lipstick and high heels and lacy lingerie and perfume and the sweet, sweet taste of a woman’s sex. All that stuff. And John ‘Three Continents’ Watson should know.

Besides, anybody who has been in the services has had time to savour the dubious joys of an almost entirely homosocial environment. You’ve spent most of your working life surrounded by muscular, virile men. The odd female nurse, increasingly some female soldiers, but still, overwhelmingly war is a man’s world.

You never felt the slightest twitch.

The story goes that the showers at Camp Bastion had treacherously slippery floors because of all the wanking that went on in there. You had to walk through a foot bath of semen just to wash. You remember it well. (Let it never be said that you did not make your own contribution, either.) You even witnessed the offerings of others on occasion.

Nope, never a twitch. Guaranteed.

With Harry nagging you, you recently took to sitting in pavement cafes, watching the girls go by. Enjoying the sway and bump of those gorgeous behinds, the bob of pretty breasts, the swish of lustrous locks. The next day, you’d watch the boys. Watch for the muscular columns of necks and thighs, bubble arses, well-shaped arms and pecs. You tried very, very hard to see her point. And you can see it from a purely aesthetic point of view. Men can be beautiful. You get that already.

You just don’t want to fuck them.

Not in general, anyway. The specific is another matter.

The thing is, Sherlock doesn’t fit easily into either category. He has the face of an angel and the lips of a screen goddess. He has an arse to end all arses, an arse that would make Jay-Lo weep with envy. He has soft curls and a sense of style that wouldn’t look out of place on the Paris catwalk. But he also has a very male swagger, a means of locomotion that leaves the onlooker in no doubt as to what hangs between his legs. And he smells more male, even with his favourite aftershave, than a whole battalion of marines after a three-week bivouac in the Bosnian mountains. You know that smell, and you never in a million years thought you would find it sexy.

You do.

Holding him now, weak and vulnerable, more your own than he has ever been, or ever will be again, you are confused by the desires waking in you. You know you aren’t gay. Christ, you can think of a hundred examples to prove it. But there is an exception to the rule, and it is currently pressing its lips to your ear and murmuring softly.

‘I love you, oh, God, I love you so much…’

In that subsonic rumble of a baritone that goes straight through your chest and down your spine.

You aren’t gay. You don’t want to fuck men. Not men in general.

Just him. Just Sherlock.

You lift him, tip him up, angle him to face you, weak though he is, and kiss him. You faintly remember that you kissed him last night, maybe more than once. There was so much going on then. Now there is nothing more than you and him here in this room, in each other’s arms. His eyes staring into yours, blinking, surprised by love. You run your fingers over his lips, along the line of his jaw, around the shell of his ear, down the sinuous curve of his neck. You come to rest in the cup of his collarbone, at the base of his magnificent throat, where the skin is almost luminous. You stroke and circle there, stuck, dazzled by the sense of sheer want that is rising inside you.

He moans.

Want. It’s a strange thing.

Want and Need. Two words that completely define and encompass your relationship. You need Sherlock. You need Sherlock to need you. Sherlock needs you. You want Sherlock. Sherlock wants you. You can tell from the way his lips part, almost in disbelief. Women have looked at you that way. You never thought he would.

You wonder, not for the first time, if he has ever been touched. Moriarty called him the Virgin. Is that so far from the truth? If he has been touched, was it ever with love? (You know it was never with as much as love as you can show him, that’s for sure, but even so.)

You know from the look in his eyes that he wants this. You feel him begin to tremble, feel the anticipation heating his skin. As exhausted, as burnt out as he is, this is a need he can’t deny. His eyes cloud with hunger.

You want to crawl inside his body and lose yourself forever. You want to tear every stitch from him and melt into his skin. You want to kiss him till your breath runs out, and then keep on kissing him. You want to caress him and stroke him and drive him wild with need and want and make him come, screaming, under you, and to never, ever let him go.

You know this cannot happen.

At least not without a serious u-turn on your part. Maybe on his part too, though you have no idea whether he is gay or straight because he has never given the slightest hint, even in the midst of that weird obsessional thing with the Adler Woman (and there are no words for how much you hate her). Around Sherlock, sexuality becomes so fluid as to be irrelevant. But it isn’t irrelevant to you. It’s huge, life defining. You are about to reverse polarities, and to do that, you need guarantees.

‘I want this,’ you whisper, fixing him with your eyes. ‘I want you. But I need to be sure. I need to know you won’t back out on me. Change your mind. This is us, Sherlock, this is our future. I want you. I want to love you. Your body as well as your mind. I want you to love me too. Do you understand that?’

He looks up at you, nods as if the understanding is slow in dawning on him. Good. You know he is taking his time, giving this serious thought.

‘I want you to take that amazing brain and turn it on me. I want you to focus on me. Everything you have. Only on me. I want there to be nothing else when we make love, just us, not ideas or experiments or cases, just you and me. And if you do that, I swear to you I will never give you cause to regret it. I will show you things, make you feel things you have never imagined. I will give you pleasures you never dreamed of. But you have to be entirely mine, Sherlock, do you understand?’

It’s a tall order, you know. To expect a mind so adept at multiple lines of complex thought to focus on one thing. You know you are asking a lot. Maybe too much, in fact. It will be the greatest test of his entire life. To sustain this single concentration for the rest of his existence.

When he answers, his voice shakes with emotion.

‘But I am yours, John. I’ve always been yours. I always will be. Don’t you know that?’

‘Your mind, Sherlock.’

‘Yes, everything, all that I am I give to you.’

And there it is. This is my body, which is broken for you. This is my blood, which boils for you. This is my heart, which beats for you.

You never dreamt he would give you this.

So you take him. In a tangle of limbs, of nakedness, you take him and mark him and make him your own. He gives himself up to you willingly, trembling with desire and love, and you take everything he has, and give him double back. You take him to places neither of you have ever been, transcendent places that only the flesh can understand, that the heart alone can navigate. In your arms, he sparkles like raw diamond, incandescent with the triumph of love. You realise he feels loved for the first time in his life, and it makes you weep to see, even while you are inside him, moving towards your own ecstasy. The way he clings to you, cries for you, quivers for you, brings you to your own transcendence too. 

You were made for this. For him. 

All those women were just empty fucks. So much for ‘Three Continents’ Watson. This is what love is. You know that now. You will take him and lift him up beyond the stars and you will do it again and again, and he will sing your name with his soul for evermore.

And after, when it is over, and you lie with him in sweat-soaked sheets, you know this joy is only the beginning.


End file.
